


Maybe it's Cliché

by kirargent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Cheerleader Dean, Jock Cas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:13:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell Dean Winchester he’s a cliché, and he’ll punch your face in. Mostly because… well… it’s kind of true. He’s a cheerleader at Lawrence High School, and he’s madly, pathetically, desperately in love with the quarterback, Castiel Novak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe it's Cliché

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by the always wonderful [eliawinters](http://eliawinters.tumblr.com) and written for [fricked-by-feels](http://fricked-by-feels.tumblr.com) as part of my fic giveaway!
> 
> I'm bad with titles leave me alone

Tell Dean Winchester he’s a cliché, and he’ll punch your face in. Mostly because… well… it’s kind of true. He’s a cheerleader at Lawrence High School, and he’s madly, pathetically, desperately in love with the quarterback, Castiel Novak.

Though really, it’s not his fault. How could anyone _not_ be in love with Cas? He’s smart, and he’s funny, and he’s nice to everyone, and he’s _gorgeous_ , jogging cool-down laps around the football field where Dean, stretching on the other side of the field, can stare unabashedly. He’s sweaty, after practice, dark hair even darker with sweat, t-shirt sticking to his back as he runs, the bulky lines of his shoulders rolling under red fabric.

Dean curses quietly as he stands up, windmilling his arms to loosen them and winking at Anna Milton before slinging his bag over his shoulder and dragging his feet to the locker room.

Stripping off his practice clothes, he twists the knob for hot water and steps under the stream, running his hands down his face. God, he’s tired. He’s always tired after practice; his legs always ache, his arms are always sore, his mind is always a swirling mess of _Cas, Cas, Cas_ , and all he wants to do is fall into bed.

The locker room door swings open, and Dean jumps, nearly slips, and hastily grabs for his towel, because that dark, perpetual bedhead could only belong to one person.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean smiles, lifting his left hand in a half-wave, using his right to hold the towel around his waist.

Cas runs his hands through his already mussed hair, making it stick up like crazy. Dean swallows.

“So. Big game tomorrow, huh?” He tries to keep his voice level - cocky, even - but the choked little tremor he gets sometimes around Cas is all too present.

Cas’s mouth quirks into a small approximation of a smile. “Yeah. We’ll be okay, though. I happen to know that our cheerleading squad is better than theirs.” His smile grows into a hint of a grin.

A tiny thrill races up Dean’s spine, and he can feel heat rushing to his cheeks. “That’s… we’re…” Cas’s shockingly blue eyes are focused on him and Dean’s tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth. How is it that he can flirt ceaselessly with the entire school, but around Cas, he gets tongue-tied? “Thanks,” he manages after a moment.

Cas nods a little. And then he takes off his shirt.

Dean simultaneously nearly chokes on his own spit and nearly drops his towel. “I’m just…” he hooks his thumb over his shoulder towards his bag. “ ‘m just gonna… I’ve gotta get home.” Nice, Winchester. Run away from the scary attractive man.

Cas just nods distractedly as he walks to his locker, sliding his shorts down as he goes, and really Dean can’t be blamed for staring, because undressing in motion is damn impressive. That’s all it is. Really. Cas turns around and Dean stumbles for his bag, eyes darting away from the finest ass he has ever seen.

All the way home, Dean can’t clear his head of those startling eyes or that messy hair or those strong legs or the rumbliest fucking voice in high school.

* * *

_Good luck_ Dean had said. _Good luck_ he’d said two hours ago, passing Castiel in the hall with his cute, freckled cheeks tinged pink and his full, pretty lips curved into a shy smile.

Two hours ago, and Castiel is still distracted. He’s nearly certain he wrote “freckles” instead of “cosine” on his math test last period, and he can’t quite bring himself to take a bite of his apple because it reminds him too much of Dean’s brilliantly red lips.

This is ridiculous.

Clearing his throat, Castiel looks up at his friends and sets his apple down in favor of grabbing his sandwich and taking an oversized bite. He starts to listen to Michael (“...and then she said _no_ , can you believe that? So anyway, I…”), but Dean is sitting just two tables away, eating with his younger brother.

Cas isn’t a stalker, but he’s observant. He knows that Dean’s brother’s name is Sam, but Dean calls him Sammy. He knows that Sam’s a freshman while Dean’s a senior. He know that Sam’s some kind of a genius, doesn’t plan to cut his hair until he graduates, and that Dean would do absolutely anything for him.

Casual observation. Nothing more.

Sam says something, and Dean throws his head back in a laugh, and Castiel exerts a valiant effort into paying attention to Michael instead of paying attention to the way Dean’s whole body tilts into his laughter.

He doesn’t even come close to succeeding.

It’s only when Jo slaps the back of his head and chirps, “Big game tonight, Novak! You better take us to state!” that he snaps out of it, flashing her a smile and nodding.

“I’ll do the best I can,” he assures, but she’s already gone, flitting easily through the cafeteria.

Castiel inhales deeply, twisting his hands together in his lap.

The game tonight _is_ a big one; if they win, they’ll go to state for the first time in Castiel’s high school career. If they lose, they’re done for the season.

And Castiel can’t tear his focus away from Dean long enough to finish his _sandwich_.

* * *

“You’re here early,” Dean notes, dumping his bag in his locker and unzipping his jacket, careful to keep his gaze away from the distraction of Cas worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Cas, leaning back against the bench, shrugs. “You are, too.” His lip pops free, red and wet.

God damn it. Dean manages to keep his voice level, though; “Not really. It’s almost 6:30.”

“It’s… really?”

Dean nods. “How long have you been sitting here?”

Cas shrugs again. “I‘m not sure, exactly. I’ve been trying to clear my head.”

“Of?”

“Just… stuff. I’ve been distracted lately.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Dean agrees, trying to pass it off as casual, when really, the object of his distraction is sitting right behind him. He shucks off his warm-up pants - and if he wiggles his ass a little more than necessary in hopes that Cas is watching, well. No one’s around to see. He doesn’t really care for the skimpy cheerleading shorts, but every once in a while, they have their benefits. “Don’t worry about it, though, you’ll be awesome.” He catches himself before he adds “ _You always are._ ”

When he turns away from his locker, Cas is looking up at him with that half-smile that graces his lips so often. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Ah, no big deal,” Dean says, waving a hand. He feels weirdly exposed, but it’s less because of his tiny shorts and more because of how fucking _earnestly_ Cas is staring up at him.

“I mean it, Dean. Thank you,” he insists, and Dean feels his whole face going red.

“It’s really - don’t worry about it,” he mumbles, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck.

Thankfully, the door swings open then, bringing with it loud voices that echo off the walls, and sparing Dean any further one-on-one interaction with Cas.

Stomach twisting with some weird combination of relief and disappointment, Dean shoulders easily through the newly-arrived mass of football players to join the other cheerleaders on the field.

Pamela’s yelling at him almost as soon as he leaves the locker room - “Get your cute ass over here, Winchester, you’re _late_!” - and he jogs over with a roll of his eyes.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I got… held up.” Jo gives him a knowing look, which he ignores. “Have you guys stretched already?”

They have - he really is late - so he’s relegated to standing off to the side and trying to keep his balance as he pulls one foot up and back to stretch his thigh while his team starts to plan their cheers for the night. He switches legs, dropping his right foot to grab his left and absently watching Jo and Anna argue even as his mind drifts, as it always does, to Cas.

What’s he been so distracted by? Of course, hopefully _Dean_ , but the chances of that are practically nonexistent. Cas isn’t even interested in guys, so far as Dean knows; apart from the rumors that he’s fooled around with Balthazar in the locker room, there’s nothing to suggest that Cas isn’t one-hundred-percent heterosexual. He dates girls. _Lots_ of girls - not like that, he’s not, like, a player or anything; he treats them well, he just… dates. A lot. In fact, Dean’s pretty sure he recognizes one of the cheerleaders for the other team as a former girlfriend of Cas’s. Meg, maybe? Dark hair, dark eyes, dark smile, dark everything - if Dean’s remembering correctly, she and Cas dated for a few months.

Dean sighs as he bends his right arm behind his head, tugging on his elbow to stretch his shoulder. With Meg here in addition to all the other pretty girls who go to Lawrence High, what hope does Dean have of Cas paying attention to _him_? In fact, that’s probably what was distracting Cas - he knew Meg would be here tonight, and he was concerned about seeing her again after their break up. It makes perfect sense. That has to be it.

Dean swallows past the spike of disappointment growing in his chest and lightly runs over to join his squad. “You guys ready?”

Tamara rolls her eyes. “Are _you_ ready, Winchester? You’re the one who missed stretches.” She gives him that condescending look she seems to reserve just for him, and Dean hunches his shoulders.

“I told you, I got distracted,” he mutters, gaze floating out to the locker room exit, wondering how Cas is doing. He’s probably in his uniform by now, but still trying to get Meg out of his mind. Dean clenches his jaw. “ _Anyway_. Are we ready?” he asks again.

Anna, standing next to him, bumps his shoulder affectionately. “ ‘Course we are, Dean. Tonight’s gonna be great; I can feel it.”

Dean manages a small smile. “Yeah. I hope so,” he says, mostly just to indulge her. Tonight won’t be great. Cas is distracted, but not by Dean, by _Meg_ , and they probably won’t even win, and that means the season will be over and Dean won’t get to stare at Cas during practice anymore.

He tries desperately to ignore the feeling of his heart sinking into his stomach as he half-heartedly joins in on warm-ups, eyes flicking restlessly over to the other team.

 

They’re losing. Cas is distracted, off his game, the third quarter is almost halfway over, and they’re down by 13 points. Not just down by 13 points; the other team only _has_ 13 points, while the Angels haven’t scored a single point.

“Novak!” yells Coach Michael. Cas, on the field, spins around to face the stands. Dean smiles at him, but he doubts Cas sees. “Come sit down, you’re benched!”

Dean watches with wide eyes as Cas takes tugs off his helmet and collapses on the bench, elbows on his knees, head hanging as he stares blankly at the ground.

“I - I’m just - I’m gonna take a water break,” Dean tells Jo, and slips away from the line of his fellow cheerleaders before anyone can protest.

“This seat taken?” He asks, voice quiet, heart pounding in his chest. He hopes he can blame his red cheeks on the fact that he’s been cheering the whole game.

Cas looks up and shakes his head. “Help yourself.” He looks back down.

Dean swallows, sits. “Are you - are you alright?” he asks, carefully. It’s maybe a dumb question - Cas certainly doesn’t _look_ alright with his inward-curved shoulders and his tightly clasped hands - but asking a dumb question is better than sitting in silence, feeling Cas’s overly-hot body temperature radiate across the few inches separating them.

Cas doesn’t look up, head still hanging below his shoulders as he mutters, “Yeah. ‘m fine, ‘m just… distracted.” He sounds tired. He sounds beaten, like he’s already given up on winning this game.

Dean has absolutely no idea what to say.

“Don’t you ever get distracted?” Cas asks suddenly, sitting up and turning to look Dean right in the eyes. Cas’s eyes are ridiculously blue. Dean’s mouth feels dry. “You know, during a game?”

Dean’s eyebrows raise and his lips press out in an accepting expression. “Yeah, I - yeah.” He clears his throat.

“How do you handle it?” Cas presses, staring so intently into Dean’s eyes it feels like he can see his fucking _soul_.

“I, um.” Since when is his voice so high pitched? Cas is sitting way too close to him. Or, he’s sitting way too close to Cas - he’s the dumbass who sat down less than six inches away from the guy. He can actually smell the faint tinge of stadium grass clinging to Cas’ uniform.

His skin thrums with desire to lean closer, even as his mind screams at him to leave before his heart beats out of his chest.

“I don’t, really. I mean, it’s kind of hard to ignore a distraction when it’s right in front of you.” Oh, that was… that was more forward than he’d intended for it to sound. He grins a little; as long as he acts confident, it’ll just sound flirty. His cheeks feel warm, though.

Cas just looks at him curiously.

Dean ducks his head under the intense scrutiny, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just - just don’t let it get to you, okay?” he offers weakly.

Cas doesn’t say anything. His eyes are saying a lot, though. Blue and clear, roaming shamelessly over Dean’s face, they catch on Dean’s eyes, then his lips, lingering for so long Dean feels it almost like a physical touch.

It would be easy, he thinks, to kiss Cas right now. The space between them is scarce enough for his nose to sting with the faint scent of sweat; they’re certainly close enough for Dean’s lips to connect with Cas’s if he leaned in.

Cas’s eyes flick away momentarily, then slide back, his mouth opening as if to say something. No words come out, but his mouth forgets to close. His eyes trace over Dean’s lips again, and Dean holds off a shiver.

It’d be quick, he assures himself. A quick lean, a quick brush of his mouth over Cas’s softly parted lips. A quick, rough catch of his upper lip on Cas’s lower.

Dean’s eyes track the movement as Cas glances away, follow the line of his throat as he swallows, lips falling open again as if he might speak.

He doesn’t, though.

The small block of air between them is charged, heated, stifling, humid, like the gentle breeze dancing through the bleachers is forgetting to flow between them. It’s too _much_. There’s too much tension, too many unspoken things - too many unknown words clinging to the tip of Cas’s tongue. Dean’s skin feels prickly all over. He feels too hot. He feels jittery, though he’s completely still, his insides vibrating with excess energy. He wants to leave, just to get away from how _big_ this suddenly feels, whatever ‘this’ is.

And so, before he can overthink it too much, he leans over, intending to graze his lips against Cas’s, chickening out at the last moment and brushing a kiss over the high curve of that pretty cheekbone instead.

He stands up and trots off quickly to avoid watching Cas’s reaction. His face is on fire. His stomach is twisting into almost painful knots, his chest feels squeezed tight like he pissed off a boa constrictor, and his arms and legs tingle with nervous energy.

“Fuck,” he whispers, grinning despite himself as he slinks back into line beside Jo. She gives him an odd look, but doesn’t comment. _Fuck_ , he thinks. What the Hell possessed him to do that?

His thoughts are quickly yanked in another direction though, because Cas is standing, now, and he’s saying something to Coach Michael, and then he’s running back out onto the field, trading places with Uriel, and getting ready to call the next play.

Not entirely sure what’s going on, Dean follows Anna into the next cheer anyway, yelling and smiling as Cas gets into position.

Dean feels something warm and fluttery start to swirl in his stomach as the second half of the game progresses, fueled by the sudden shift in Cas since he was sidelined. Dean’s creating a little fantasy world in his head as he kicks along with the cheer, a world in which Cass’ sudden energy and vigor directly correlates to the shy kiss Dean had dropped on his cheek. In Dean’s fantasy world, Cas’s limbs are buzzing with the same intoxicated energy that’s surging through Dean, and all because of one tiny, feather-light kiss.

There’s about zero-percent chance that that’s true, but it doesn’t matter. For whatever reason, they’re winning again, Cas leading them on, and for now, with nothing to shatter his little fantasy, Dean is going to pretend that the kiss meant as much to Cas as it did to him.

It’s only after the game (which they won, of course, once Cas had kicked into high gear) that Dean allows the doubt to creep back in. He has to; he can’t just keep deluding himself that Castiel, star quarterback who’s taking them to state, could like him. He’s not going to get his hopes up for nothing.

Still, he can’t help the bubbly smile that works onto his lips when Cas nods at him in the locker room.

* * *

“Thank you,” Castiel says quietly when he and Dean are the only two left in the locker room. The other football players have finally cleared out. Castiel thought they would never leave. And okay, maybe it’s slightly on the ridiculous side that he’s been folding and re-folding his t-shirt for the better part of half an hour while everyone else showered, but his “little” crush on Dean Winchester is starting to get out of hand. Although, he clearly wasn’t the only one lingering; if his count is right, Dean has now untied and tied his shoe five times, packed and re-packed his bag three times, and showered twice.

“What’re you thanking me for, man?” Dean says easily, tucking his clean white cheerleading sneakers into his bag. Again.

“For talking to me, during the game,” Castiel replies slowly. “It was very… grounding.” He injects as much sincerity into his tone as he’s able. His fingers are twitching nervously at his sides as he stares intently at the back of Dean’s head.

Even the back of Dean’s head is cute. Crap.

“Oh. Sure,” Dean replies, shouldering his bag and letting his locker slam shut. “Don’t know how I could’ve helped, though,” he adds shyly, one hand wrapped around the handle of his gym bag and the other rubbing uncomfortably at the side of his neck. He seems less confident, now, with less people around. Or maybe he’s just uncomfortable after the kiss.

A little tingle starts warm at the base of Castiel’s spine as he remembers. If he concentrates, he thinks he can still feel the soft swipe of Dean’s lips over his cheek. Warmth blooms slowly, lazily in his stomach, like a drop of red food coloring expanding in clear water.

“You did help. Trust me.”

Dean averts his eyes. Castiel follows his gaze, but fails to understand what’s so interesting about the ceiling.

“Dean, I…” Cas clears his throat. Licks his lips. “I may have… I sort of…” He can’t do it. He can’t get the words out. He’d wanted to say it earlier - _Dean, I think that I like you_ \- figured if he got it out, then maybe he’d be able to focus on the game, be able to focus on _something_ other than Dean’s full-throated laugh and his bright, grass-green eyes and his stupid plump lips, always curving up into a smirk that Castiel wants to kiss right off. But then, too, the words got trapped in his throat instead of flowing out into air.

Castiel swallows around the words lumped in his throat. Dean’s looking at him now, eyes curious, expression otherwise unreadable. Cas shakes his head.

“You what, Cas?” Dean’s voice is measured, more serious than Castiel usually hears it. He shakes his head again.

“C’mon, man,” Dean prods lightly. His lips tilt up gently, his eyes soft around the edges.

Castiel swallows. Hesitates. Pulls a breath into his lungs deep enough that it burns a little, holds it in.

 _You can do this_ , he tells himself. And anyway, what are the chances that Dean doesn’t feel the same way? He _kissed Cas on the cheek_ less than two hours ago.

Okay. Okay.

“Dean, I like you. I mean, like… as in…” he swallows again. “In the sense that I’d like to go out with you, sometime.” The words sound a little garbled to his own ears, distorted around the uncomfortable lump in his throat - but they’re _out_.

For a moment, Dean says nothing, and Castiel’s cheeks start to feel hot.

And then, Dean grins. He grins, and he chuckles, this soft, thrilled sound, quiet but strained, like he’s fighting to hold back one of those full-throated laughs.

“That’s… that’s great, man. Me too.”

Castiel’s heart is trying to squeeze up into his windpipe.

“Yes, I mean,” Dean clarifies. He makes a face. “I mean - I like you, too. I’d like to… go out, sometime.” Castiel’s words sound better in Dean’s mouth. Softer, but richer, too, warmer.

And then, before Castiel can remember how his lungs are supposed to work, Dean hurries over to press a quick kiss onto Castiel’s unresponsive lips, huffing a quiet, nervous, disbelieving laugh before waltzing out of the locker room.

And maybe it’s cliché, but Castiel’s fingers fly up to touch his mouth in wonder.


End file.
